Chapter Twenty-three
It wasn’t supposed to feel like that.
Not so utterly wonderful.
Perhaps she’d been a virgin before tonight, but Maxwell had attempted to bed her. She’d been aware of Maxwell’s compliments, that had sounded as rehearsed as any actor. He’d kissed her perfunctorily, inhaled, and then flung off his robe. The next few moments had been hasty, frantic, and he’d tackled her with the same vigor that she later saw him eat the black pudding her mother served him and the medicine his doctors gave him when they’d attempted to save his life.
That night Maxwell had arranged her in several positions. She’d thought he might succeed when he’d flipped her onto her stomach. She supposed approaching her from the back gave him privacy in an act that was in desperate need of privacy.
He’d murmured polite apologies, and though she was less innocent when he’d given up, she had not been taken.
Maxwell had retreated to his room, murmuring something about letting her sleep and attempting again tomorrow.
Tomorrow though never came. He’d retreated to his London apartment, and when he finally returned after a fortnight, they’d not spoken of it.
Why would they want to attempt something so awkward? Fortunately at some point they’d discovered a friendship.
In hindsight she wasn’t sure if he’d wooed her at all, or if he’d only succumbed to his mother’s marriage-mindedness.
He wasn’t young when she met him. He was thirty-six, young enough not to require a wife, though perhaps old enough for people to start questioning why he’d never been engaged, and had maintained an impeccable reputation even at the balls and house parties where the alcohol flowed most.
She hadn’t wanted romance. She’d prided herself on not requiring it, being cooler and calmer than the other debutantes who seemed to be either a bundle of nerves (à la Fiona), or a bundle of giggles (à la most everybody else).
Maxwell’s cool collected demeanor, his willingness to converse with her mother, and even his discomfort around the handsome, athletic men with their laddish ways had reassured her.
She felt regret for how easily she’d adapted to the rules of their marriage. She hadn’t known to be unhappy with them. She’d thought herself fortunate only to have married, to have been able to have helped her family, and she threw herself into socializing and research.
The secret had burdened her. Her grandmother had hinted at how perfect her manor house would be for young children to run about in, and she’d discussed her favorite names, as if pondering what she’d name her unborn children.
Perhaps some of her friends assumed she couldn’t have children. They didn’t know she’d never even tried, would never ever be able to try to have them. She sighed. Since then she’d done her best to avoid disappointment.
*
The wedding night’s pleasures were not replicated. The next day they set sail for London. Any accomplishments Madeline may have possessed did not extend to having a sturdy stomach, and unfortunately the Mediterranean had decided to be uncharacteristically stormy.
Arthur thankfully retreated to his cabin for most of the journey, though he still visited her several times a day, as if he wanted to ascertain her condition himself instead of relying on the reporting of the quite capable maid.
Madeline didn’t like him seeing her when her hair was messy, and since she’d developed a sudden fondness for lying on her bed while attempting to imagine the world were not swaying in unpredictable directions, she rather doubted her appearance was to her usual standards.
“Next time we’ll go by carriage. I promise you,” Arthur declared one day.
“I wanted to avoid France,” she moaned as the hull dipped and swirled.
Arthur squeezed her hand. “Then we will travel through all the Germanic kingdoms and the Alps for our next visit.”
She must have appeared confused, for he added, “I won’t compromise your safety.
His dedication to her safety, while lovely, was not what had given her pause.
“We’ll go to Venice again?” she asked.
“Naturally. Can’t have you never seeing your best friend again.” He squeezed her hand, and for a moment she even thought he kissed her cheek. But then the door closed behind him, and she closed her eyes.
Sleep had never been a more delightful thing, but eventually the ship docked in Dover. Arthur and she hadn’t discussed their living arrangements, and Madeline half-expected him to arrange a carriage to Yorkshire for her while he visited his St. James Square apartment.
Instead he ordered a carriage to take them to London together.
“I’m not sure if you remember, but I closed my townhouse in London,” Madeline said, just in case he intended to leave her at his apartment.
“Oh?”
“The servants favor Yorkshire, and I wasn’t certain when I would be back—”
“You did tell me this before,” Arthur said, though he didn’t seem upset. “My memory is still intact.”
“Splendid,” she said.
“Your late husband managed to leave you quite well off.”
“Perhaps.” She drew her legs toward herself.
Money had always been a topic rife with awkwardness. When she debuted, she’d been armed solely with her appearance, which inspired the most praise from her parents, and the fact that her father hadn’t been completely exposed to be in deep debt.
Unfortunately she lacked a title, and since she’d only visited the capital once before, she also did not know anyone. She played the piano steadfastly, reaching each note in the correct order, though not with the mysterious emotion for which other people were praised. Her singing was even less tolerable, and the hostesses of dinner parties had quickly confined her singing to songs done in groups, preferably large ones.
The season had seemed like a competition, only one of far more importance than anything that young men of her age played on the village cricket field.
She did not lack money. Maxwell had given her as much as the law allowed him to, though unfortunately he had not thought to specifically leave the paintings to her. Her books, An Introduction to Art History and An Introduction to Italian Art, had sold well. England was filled with people who desired to appear knowledgeable when faced with a centuries old painting or sculpture. Readers seemed to enjoy imagining musings on paintings from a baron ensconced in his manor home in Yorkshire, writing the occasional words of wisdom for peons.
Maxwell had let her do with the funds as she wanted to, and after he’d died she’d published several books she’d claimed to have found after his death.
Arthur tilted his head toward her. “I suppose Lord Mulbourne may have named you the recipient of his royalties in his will.”
“Y-yes.” She moved her hand to her neck, smoothing her neckline.
Arthur frowned, and she dropped her hand hastily.
Perhaps she should tell him.
Perhaps they were married and shouldn’t have such secrets.
Perhaps—
“I met Lord Mulbourne before,” Arthur said.
“Oh?”
“He never struck me as having much of an interest in art.”
“Some people can develop such interests later in life,” Madeline said cautiously.
“And some people always had them,” Arthur said.
“I—I suppose that’s true.” Her heart beat nervously. She should tell him. But confessing her lie, her secret identity—she’d trained herself not to tell anyone. Even her cousins.
“You were one of those people who always held an interest in art,” Arthur continued.
“Me?” she squeaked.
“You’re very observant.”
“You saw my poor attempt at embroidery.”
He laughed. “Embroidery doesn’t interest you. Examining sculptures and paintings does though. I believe you were behind all of your husband’s work.”
Her shoulders tensed, but she found herself nodding.
“Does no one else know?”
She shook her head. Words would come later, but now she simply struggled with deciding whether or not she was relieved the secret was out.
“You let him take all that glory?”
She drew her legs back. He didn’t understand. Her musings would never have been published under her name. If women wrote anything to be published, it tended to be for other women. “It was my best chance at getting the work out…and it was successful.”
“You should be very proud,” he said gravely.
She smiled tightly.
“But Lord Mulbourne has been dead for several years now. Perhaps now you might reveal your identity.”
“And cause a scandal?” She shook her head. “I don’t do that.”
“You just steal jewels?” Humor was in his voice.
Madeline wasn’t certain when he’d shifted from rage at her theft to a rather more restrained reaction, but she was certain she appreciated it.
The coach swept through the Kent countryside. The wooden wheels rattled over stone bridges and glided more smoothly over the dirt lane. Thankfully it must not have rained recently, and the carriage arrived in London with all its wheels intact, an occurrence that seemed far too rare when traveling over the Yorkshire Dales. The sun shone brightly, and Madeline found herself blinking into the bright light that strewed in through the windows.
“Let me draw the curtain for you,” Arthur said.
“No—it’s nice.”
He smiled, and she moved her gaze from the understanding flicker in his eyes to the long stretches of flat fields. Snowy-white lambs gathered near their mothers, leaping and dashing over the verdant blades.
“There’s nowhere nicer than England,” Arthur murmured.
They arrived in London late, and he introduced her to his very surprised servants.
The apartment may have lacked the grandeur of a country manor where the bedrooms numbered in the double digits, but the sweeping marble floors and large windows proved delightful, even if Madeline smiled at the questionable shade of brown curtains. She settled down onto the bottle green couch that aligned imperfectly with the murky brown furniture.
Arthur seemed confident when he told her that Admiral Fitzroy had believed their marriage, but Madeline wondered if it was true.
She half-expected the admiral to call on them, armed with guards.
But no one else was there.
Only Arthur.
The man seemed pleased to be back. “Do you like London?”
“I adore it.” She smiled. “Though the country has its appeals, naturally.”
“The problem with moving to London,” Arthur declared, “is that my apartment is too small for a wife.”
Oh.
He’s already regretting it.
Madeline leaned back against the seat. The sofa’s velvet upholstery could not soften the blow of his words, despite their expectancy.
“I can return to Yorkshire,” she said.
His gaze seemed to intensify, and she hastened to add, “I can take the mail coach there.”
“You want to do that?” There was a note of skepticism in his voice that made her naturally bristle.
“I mean, traveling with many strangers is not one of my favored occupations, but no one can deny the speed of the mail coach…”
He looked at her strangely, as if she’d said something entirely unexpected.
Entirely…wrong.
“I wouldn’t want to take your carriage,” she said. “But if you prefer—”
His face was stony, and she drifted off. There didn’t seem to be any way to end the sentence without meeting his continued displeasure.
Evidently he did not approve of her taking his carriage.